Ballista could not see anything. Unable to let go of the steering oar to wipe his eyes, he shook his head, trying to blink the spray out of them.
A line of white straight ahead. A dreadful roaring, like a hundred mill wheels.
The Warig surged into the wild water. She trembled, paused in her way. The deck vibrated under Ballista’s boots. A long way to the beach. She was on a sandbar. The next wave lifted the boat, threw her forward. She raced through the surf until her keel rasped into the sand. A big wave pushed her further in. The backwash began to drag her out. Another wave crashed clean over the stern, grinding her forward half clear of the water.
All discipline gone, men hurled themselves over the prow.
‘Anchor out!’ Ballista shouted. He was largely ignored. Slipping, Ballista joined Maximus and another figure wrestling with the awkward, heavy iron. As soon as it was over the side, they all followed, running and falling in their anxiety to get to safety away from the hideous sea.
There were men all over the beach. None of them was moving. Most stood, some were on their knees, a few, despite the wind and rain, had thrown themselves down as if to sleep. Ballista pushed his hair out of his face. It was stiff with salt. His hand came away filthy. His things were still on the boat. He should get them ashore. Waves broke around the stern of the Warig. Beyond, the sea raged. It seemed impossible that anything could live out there. The boat might survive, or the storm might yet break her up. Ballista was too tired to care.
Allfather, what was he thinking. ‘Diocles, get the men on their feet. Get a rope around her prow. We need to pull her clear of the water.’
No one moved. Fatigue fired Ballista’s temper. Diocles was a few paces away, staring away from the ship. Ballista marched over. ‘Centurion, I gave you an order.’
‘Dominus.’ Diocles pointed inland.
The beach shelved up for about forty paces. It ended in a low, crumbling cliff of sand. At the top, back from the edge so only their heads and shoulders could be seen, were warriors. At least a hundred of them, helmeted, carrying weapons. Heathobards.
Zeno felt like Ixion bound to the wheel. First he had been raised up. He had prayed to Zeus and Poseidon, promised each an ox and other fine things. They had heard his prayers, nodded in acceptance. When all seemed lost, they had rescued him from the howling, daemonic gale. The gods had cast him up on shore. Filthy, cold and exhausted, he had been saved. Honest earth under his feet, rather than treacherous, shifting planks, the retching sickness had receded.
With no pause, the wheel had begun its downward turn. Strange warriors had sprouted from the cliff, like barbaric sown men. Heathobards, someone said. In the face of this new threat, all courage and resource had deserted Ballista and the others. They had stood as if themselves rooted to the ground. They had dropped their weapons, and with no resistance let these seeming autochthonous warriors take them all captive.
The wheel had dipped still lower. With the unthinking arrogance and brutality of barbarians, the Heathobards had manhandled their prisoners into a rough line. Two huge, hairy warriors had seized Zeno. They had tied his hands and put a halter around his neck. A rope ran from his tether to that of Amantius in front and to the oarsman behind. At a stroke, Aulus Voconius Zeno, Vir Perfectissimus, had become part of a slave chain; an Abasgian eunuch in front, a pleb behind.
In the slanting rain, the Heathobards had driven them up a narrow, slippery path which climbed the cliff. Zeno had found it difficult to keep his footing. Each time his boot skidded or he hesitated, the shackle had tugged him forward, the rough hairs of the rope burning his neck. At the top they were herded for what seemed an eternity across an open, storm-blasted heath. They had trudged through the downpour to a stockaded settlement on a rise in the distance. On arrival, they had been led down a muddy lane between mean timber buildings. Water dripped off the thatch. Grimy barbarian children and huge women, as pale and monstrous as their menfolk, had come out in the rain to stare at them.
Their prison was a large, empty barn. The halters had been removed, but their hands remained bound. When the door was shut, it was dark. A heavy bar thumped into place.
Zeno sat, head in his bound hands, his back against the log wall. As far as he could tell, the others had flopped down to sleep like dumb beasts. Certainly some were snoring. Zeno did not sleep. Like Odysseus in the cave of the Cyclops, his mind kept weaving, weaving cunning schemes. Physical escape was impossible: they were bound, it was too dark to see, the walls were stout, and he had seen that the ceiling was high. If they got out, they were in the middle of the territory of their captors, the boat miles away, most likely damaged, and probably guarded. Brute force and violence would not win their freedom.
Escape would take intelligence and cunning. It would take words. Zeno was skilled with words. That he had acquired only an inconsiderable smattering of the language of Germania on this ghastly journey need not be an insuperable barrier. His hands were eloquent, and his slaves had learnt more and could interpret for him. From what he knew, the tribe of the Heathobards had never had diplomatic dealings with Rome. Simple appeal to her maiestas, as reflected in his own person, her envoy, was unlikely to be effective. Yet while they might not be predisposed towards Rome, they might not be intensely hostile. They would have seen what her imperium could achieve. Roman gold and Roman-made swords had raised the Angles to wealth and hegemony among the barbarians of the far north. It had been said the Heathobards were not friends of the Angles. If they did not already know who they had captured, Zeno could offer them Ballista. A son of the king of the Angles should make a useful bargaining counter in the politics of the Suebian Sea. And Zeno could go further. He could offer them what the Angles had been given: Roman money and weapons. If they let him return south to win them the friendship of the emperor, they could keep Castricius and the others as hostages. Of course, out of imperial favour as he was, it was most improbable he could achieve anything of the sort. But that was no great matter. Once safely in the imperium, the whole course of the embassy could be recast in a very different light.
Outside, the bar was lifted. The door opened. Warriors with torches stood there. The light shone on their helmets and mailcoats. One of them spoke. Ballista and the Harii called Wada got to their feet and went to the door. Their wrists were untied. Zeno followed them. The Heathobard who had spoken before said something to him; from its tone, a question. Zeno gave him his full name and rank, trying to make the Latin sonorous and impressive. He announced his mission, repeating ‘envoy’ and ‘emperor’ in what he thought were the Germanic words. The Heathobard grunted, and unbound Zeno’s hands as well. He gestured for them to leave.
‘I need one of my slaves,’ Zeno said to Ballista.
‘We are going to talk for our lives, not to the baths.’ Ballista turned and left. Zeno had no choice but to follow.
It was difficult to tell the halls of northern kings apart. Outside, enormous beams set at unexpected angles and overhanging thatched roofs; inside, they were gloomy, always smoky despite their height, the benches packed with fierce-looking warriors. The hall of the Heathobards could have been that of the Rugii, the Harii, or any of the other oddly named tribes through whose territories they had passed. Zeno had plenty of time to study the interior. The talk was entirely in the northern tongue.
The king of the Heathobards was elderly. He spoke for some time, his tone neutral. First Ballista answered, Wada afterwards. Then two councillors, each of an age with their king, spoke. There was disagreement between them. One appeared not unkindly disposed. Zeno noticed him smile at Wada. Finally, the king made a brief pronouncement.